


Aphrodite of Ataraxia

by vihistoo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Smut, mild smut i guess?, of course there's a hair kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:39:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vihistoo/pseuds/vihistoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without his tea, without his cigarettes, Molly smiles when she finds out Sherlock associates her presence with peace. And, if she figures out what brings him to his knees, well, she'll keep that between Sherlock and her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aphrodite of Ataraxia

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, it's a fact of life that Sherlock's hair is a turn on for every man, woman, and sentient being. I can no longer deny it, so here is my work of art in all it's filthy glory.
> 
> p.s. When I write smut, only god knows how it turns out, so I look to you, dear readers, for the outcome. Too cliche? Too mushy? Good? My proverbial heart is in your virtual hands.

He appears sometimes, lingering in her flat like a spectre until she gets off work, tapping away on her laptop or sleeping in her bed. It's no longer a surprise, yet his simple appearance always brings a joy to her heart, one that she can't help but try to suppress out of a need to protect herself from embarrassment when he no doubt meets her excited eyes with a dispassionate look.

She is especially careful today, seeing as how the moment she enters her flat the shadow on her couch whirls to look at her, and lets out a frustrated huff of breath. Molly steps quietly to her bedroom after hanging up her coat and setting her keys on the side table, being certain not to make any noise that might provoke him into a deducing rage. Molly has had a long day at work - come to think about it, all her work days are long, especially where one consulting detective is concerned - and she really does not want to deal with him when he begins to act like a petulant child.

When Molly is in her room,  _T_ _he Safe Zone_ , she dubs it in her head, she strips out of her work clothes, changing into a pair of comfortable trackies and a floppy shirt. She would love to take a hot shower, but she already showered this morning, and Molly knows that if she cleans herself again her hair will get coarse and frizzy, and unfortunately her flat doesn't allow her the luxury of a bathtub. She lets out a deep breath, snuggling into her bed and picking up a book she had begun to read a few days ago, Frankenstein, by Mary Shelly. Molly loves the classics. Treasure Island, The Three Musketeers, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, all of them. Something about the old language and the flashy adjectives reign in her attention and fascination every time she opens the cover.

Halfway through her chapter, she hears a large thud, then a wordless shout, and she pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. Molly briefly contemplates going to check on Sherlock, as she can now hear him muttering and pacing the length of her hallway, but for safety's sake, she pulls the duvet up a bit higher and picks up her book again, angling it so it blocks the door, should anyone try to enter and disturb her peace.

The muttering increases, the pacing stops and starts like an old car, another frustrated sound reaches her ears, and after he leaves the hallway Molly can hear Sherlock rummaging around in her kitchen.

"Molly! Where in the devil is my tea? And have you thrown out my cigarettes?"

Molly lets out a long-suffering sigh, sinking in her bed to dramatically thump her head against the pillow. She's thirty-three, and it may be childish, but it relieves her angst and irritation, if but a little. She slaps her book on her nightstand and slithers out of bed, letting out a grumble when she is once again subjected to the cold air of her flat.

She enters the kitchen and watches him for a few moments as he checks her cabinets, his suit abandoned for the pajama pants, t-shirt, and dressing gown he brings when he comes over. She tries not to think of Sherlock at Baker Street, picking through his dresser and closet, taking out clothes and packing them into the small bag he brings, when he even brings one. The right side of Molly's closet has more than a few hangers that hold his clothing, and the stand in her bathroom houses one of his toothbrushes, more often than not. She also tries to not think of what that means.

Sherlock finally turns to meet her gaze, and when he does, Molly raises her eyebrows, encouraging him to speak.

"My tea, Molly. Where's my tea? If you had moved it, I would've been able to deduce where, but seeing as I can't, you either tossed it out, which is highly doubtful, considering your altruistic nature, or you forgot it, also highly doubtful, considering your need to please."

"The store was out," Molly sighs. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I went to two other shops and neither of them had it."

Sherlock scowls. "So I'll have to drink yours, then? It's far too flowery and sweet," he mumbles. "And what of my cigarettes?"

Molly shakes her head. "Sherlock, you know I have no idea where you hide your things in my flat. Even if I found your cigarettes, you said it yourself. My altruistic nature would prevent me throwing them out, even though I know how bad they are for you."

Sherlock's eyes narrow, sweeping her from head to toe, and where it was once frightening, it is almost a comfort now. When he locks eyes with her again he groans and stomps out of the kitchen, dropping heavily onto her couch. Molly follows him, crossing her arms and sitting on her ottoman.

"Do you have your tea or cigarettes at Baker Street?" she asks, trying to be helpful, because, really, if this affects his mood, she'll have to be exposed to it all night, as he often sleeps with her in bed, and she does not want that. Peace, is what she wants. One bloody night of peace. Is that really so much?

Sherlock flings an arm over his face, his cheek twitching in agitation. "No. I keep my needed things here," he grinds out. "For convenience."

Molly nods slowly. "I'm sorry Sherlock. You'll just have to do without," she says. She then walks back into her room, and sinks under her duvet, arranging the pillows behind her and picking up Frankenstein once again.

Minutes later, Molly hears Sherlock stomp down the hall, and when her bedroom door flies open, it's all Molly can do to reign in her sigh of annoyance. Sherlock closes her door and Molly shifts, prepared to deal with one of his rants, but instead of speaking, he crawls onto her bed and flops, laying his cheek on her thigh and curling his body over the side of hers.

Molly stiffens in surprise, the hand not holding her book suspended in air as she tries to comprehend the situation. Sherlock has never touched her voluntarily. Well, only once.

Right after the Fall, he had been shaking, his hands too unsteady to hold his tea, and she had yearned to embrace him, envelop in her arms, try to provide some miniscule comfort. She had wanted so badly that she had risen out of her chair and gone to him, crouching in front of his eyes and placing her hands over his on the cup, enfolding their trembling weakness in her steady strength. Then he had moved, bending to the side to place the cup on her table. They had locked eyes, the first time he'd met her gaze that night, then he had sagged into her, his body losing all support except the sureness of her arms around his shoulders.

Molly feels a rush of emotion as she remembers it, remembers the damp tears that had wet the shoulder of her shirt as he clung to her, long fingers tangled in the fabric. Afterwards, they had not spoken of it, but she exulted in the confidence he held the next day.

He doesn't tremble now, but there is a stiffness in his shoulders, the frustration and agitation he is so clearly feeling manifesting itself by tightening his muscles.

"Sherlock?" Molly ventures. "Is everything alright?"

Sherlock moves his head to the side, taking his mouth off of her leg so he can be heard. "This case is proving to be decidedly puzzling, and because my tea and cigarettes are unavailable, I am required to seek your presence, as it usually lends me some modicum of ataraxia."

Molly's mouth stretches traitorously when she hears his small show of sentiment - even though he tried to hide it behind wordy vocabulary - and her hand automatically comes to rest on his head, where it had previously been hovering over his form. Sherlock tenses, and his breathing begins to pick up slightly in anticipation. Molly watches with caution, wondering if she should take her hand away, when a thought suddenly strikes her.

It could be nothing, really. But, still. She's noticed it. Sherlock's not the only one who can observe. It's a simple release of tension is his shoulders, an almost inaudible sigh when his hands come up to ruffle his hair. But she notices.

Sherlock is still flexed against her leg, and Molly sinks her fingers into Sherlock's hair very, very slowly. When his only reaction is a hitch in his breath, Molly proceeds further, rubbing his scalp with her fingertips, the natural texture causing his curls to become wrapped around her fingers, pulling lightly at the follicles.

Sherlock's breath gets caught again, and then, to Molly's astonishment, a great shiver racks his body, and he completely relaxes, the full weight of his body rolling into hers. Molly's stills for a moment, shock stopping her, and she barely keeps in an amazed laugh when Sherlock makes some noise low in his chest and rubs his head against her hand, clearly indicating for her to continue.

 _Like a cat_ , Molly thinks, sitting back and holding her breath as Sherlock cuddles closer to her, throwing an arm over her waist and settling his head further into her lap. She begins to thoroughly massage his scalp, taking care to lightly pet his head and pull the strands every once in a while. Every time she pulls them, he shivers, and she decides to focus on her amusement rather than the growing longing as she watches him move closer and closer into her body, eventually stopping her ministrations to fully climb into her lap, forcing her to lay on her back as he buries his head into the valley of her breasts, draping himself over her as one might a blanket.

When she brings both of her hands to his head, he _purrs_ , and nuzzles his head into her hand and chest, leaving Molly to swallow difficultly when she feels his warm breath through her thin shirt, feeling a spark of embarrassment when she realizes his ear is above her heart, and he can no doubt hear it thundering. Sherlock's breathing gradually slows and his body becomes increasingly lax and warm. It begins to make Molly drowsy, but to get ready to fall asleep she has to put down her book and turn off her lamp, both actions requiring her to take her hands away from Sherlock.

He shifts slightly and makes a noise of distaste, rubbing his cheek against her.

"Just a moment, Sherlock," Molly says, wiggling her fingers in an attempt to inch them further to the lamp switch, not being able to reach it with Sherlock's weight keeping her in place.

"Molly," Sherlock groans, shaking his head slightly.

"Hush, love," Molly soothes, dragging the lamp closer with its cord, huffing a triumphant breath when she clicks the switch and the room is thrown into darkness, a sliver of light appearing from under her door.

Sherlock whines again and Molly grins, laying one hand on the back of his neck and the other in his hair, having to fight down a shiver when Sherlock groans, the noise morphing into a pleased rumble that she can feel reverberate in her collar bones.

Eventually, Sherlock's noises of pleasure quiet into the occasional hum, and Molly slips into sleep with him, her hand still tangled in his hair.

The next morning, in the kitchen, the couch, and eventually back in the bed, Molly discovers that pulling Sherlock's hair can have a different result than just making him fall asleep.

______________________________

"A-according to our previous, hah, encounters, you...you enjoy this immensely," Sherlock pants, hiking Molly's leg over his hip again, still thrusting tortuously slow, reaching a hand out to grasp her breast, his thumb flicking over her nipple.

Molly gasps and releases the air in a keen, bringing her hands to Sherlock's hair and tugging hard. Sherlock groans brokenly and his eyes roll back into their sockets, his hips stuttering hard against hers.

After Molly recovers from the star-bursting pleasure radiating from her sex, she kisses Sherlock viciously, biting his lip before releasing him. How dare him? He's been keeping her on the edge for ages, and he actually attempts to speak? To hold a conversation? Through her haze of sexual desperation, Molly is angry, and she pulls Sherlock's hair again, her blood boiling through her veins when he growls, his body shuddering powerfully and his hips now slamming into hers at a rate that makes her whine high in her throat and bring his form closer to hers.

"You...y-you teasing minx," Sherlock gasps, laying his forehead against her collarbone, the hand previously on her breast moving to steady himself above her.

"Hello, Pot, I'm...oh!...I'm Kettle," Molly pants, back arching as Sherlock nips at her skin.

Molly feels herself near the edge, and despite how much she tries, her cries rise in pitch and frequency, and although they remind her of a bird with a broken wing, Sherlock seems to like them, as his rhythm begins to falter, and the hand on her hip tightens.

"Molly, My Molly, my lovely, darling Molly," Sherlock moans, exhaling harshly into her skin.

His rough, pleasured voice and sweet words catapult Molly into the abyss, and she throws her head back and grips Sherlock's curls tightly, lights bursting behind her eyelids, electricity running through her body and curling her toes. The groan he lets out cracks and wavers as he thrusts frantically, his peaking shout muffled in her flesh as he bites her shoulder. A little aftershock of pleasure zips through her when he does, and he breaths heavily, dropping onto her, still gently rocking.

Molly lovingly rubs his shoulders and back, sharing a sweet kiss with him before they disentangle themselves from each other, Sherlock falling to the side and instantly enveloping Molly in his arms, their sweat-sticky bodies sliding against each other. Molly runs her fingers through Sherlock's hair, combing through the tangles their coupling has created.

Sherlock lets out a low thrum of pleasure, his hand running along her side from under her breast to her hip, where he spreads his hand out until his fingers press into the flesh of her arse, using his hold to bring her hips closer to his.

"Sherlock?" Molly questions, feeling a cheeky smile form on her lips.

"You, my dear, are a deviant sex goddess, and if possible, I would sculpt your likeness in gold, and adorn you in the finest jewels, my captivating Aphrodite," Sherlock murmurs, his hand sliding over her hip until his fingers fully envelop her arse, where he begins to wave his fingers, kneading her flesh.

Molly feels the blush heat her cheeks, and she can only hope her already flushed face hides it, because, frankly, it's ridiculous. They haven't said their _I love you_ 's, but they have had many bouts of wild, filthy sex, and it's embarrassing that the simplest show of heartfelt affection from him has her insides turn to mush.

"Well, what would a goddess be without her loyal worshiper?" Molly asks Sherlock, brushing a thumb over the enchanting arch of his cheekbones. "She would be nothing."

Sherlock's face softens, and he kisses her forehead gently, turning from her slightly to flick her lamp off, darkness descending on them as he raises the duvet to cover them, after which he brings Molly to his chest again, wrapping long limbs around her petite frame.

With a sigh of content, Molly sinks into Sherlock's embrace, soaking in the perfect moment. Until, of course, Sherlock's baritone cuts through it cleanly.

"Does the shop still not have my tea?"

A sharp gasp, then deep, rumbling moan will give you an idea of what his punishment was, but if you asked Sherlock, or Molly for that matter, it really wasn't a punishment at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, ataraxia is a ''Greek term used by Pyrrho and Epicurus [poets and philosophers] for a lucid state of robust tranquility, characterized by ongoing freedom from distress and worry'' brought to you by the omniscient Wikipedia.
> 
> And, just because the word is Greek, Aphrodite, the goddess Sherlock compares Molly too, is the Greek goddess of ''love, beauty, pleasure, and procreation'' also explained in the never-ending fountain of knowledge that is Wikipedia.


End file.
